


suspended injury in a monsoon trough

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble-esque, M/M, Sibling Incest, hurt comfort, shapeless fluff, tiny oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in pain, therefore Mycroft is in pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	suspended injury in a monsoon trough

It’s still pissing rain when the world comes on the other side of clarity: dully real and morphine-free and throbbing.

 Mycroft is very quiet, the line of his mouth curved as though he’s frowning. Sherlock remembers the use of his fingers, traces smooth brow, imagining creases, and Mycroft blinks under his hand.

"Are you being maudlin again?" Sherlock says, muffled by his pillow. “Melodrama is unbecoming.”

He’s curled on his right because his left is a swollen mess of indigo and red, Mycroft’s curled on his left because he wants to see Sherlock, watching like he might figure Sherlock out while he sleeps, like Sherlock’s some oblique work of art.

“He was getting away, I couldn’t just wait for the yard, would’ve take another decade to catch him again”, Sherlock explains, though Mycroft probably knows it all better than he does – all the slicing through London, fast on his feet, the subsequent crack and blow of defense when he caught the killer, the squelch of rain sliding around his shoes as he limped past flashing police lights, the prick of needle, gathering drop of blood.

Sherlock smells like disinfectant, therefore Mycroft smells like disinfectant, and it’s a familiar and childish, like hot milk and warm sheets.

Sherlock, head and ears stuffed with cotton, can’t remember coming to bed. A shame, but it doesn’t matter because his brother’s naked thigh slides between his own and Mycroft kisses him: soft presses roaming from lip to cheek to jaw to one mottling bruise on his shoulder.

“Although, I think I like you best,” Sherlock says to the top of his brother’s head, pressing his palms on either side, “when you’re being melodramatic.”

Mycroft keeps to his silence – his brother’s hurt, therefore he is hurt, and Sherlock cards through his hair and Mycroft kisses down his injury.

A release of endorphins is better than morphine. Jointly, they are better than any drug.

It’s still raining when the world slides back into comfort.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I felt limp and uncreative and generally low spirited. It's the bloody heat in this place, I wish it would rain.  
> I'm [here](http://www.jasnutter.tumblr.com). on tumblr, come talk to me if you like. There are other drabbles there, lost somewhere admist the tumblry rubble.


End file.
